Welcome to the world of the novel-in-blogress, BEYOND YOU & ME, by W. S. Cross. A journey of personal discovery about Cassie DiMarco, a 24 year-old Yale grad student's wife from Philadelphia. Based on a real journal recounting her adventures during the Sexual Revolution. To Yale, she's "nothing more than a secretary," yet this modern Cinderella awakens from her slumber to find happiness, thanks to the Women's Movement and her own remarkbable abilities.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

(continuing the "all nighter" conversation between Cassie and her lovers P. and S.)

"That's such a depressing resolution." S. tried to kiss up to me in my moment of sadness, though he looked bored. I laughed in spite of myself, since my ass was getting numb from sitting on the cold, hard floor, and we'd both gotten more lit crit than we'd bargained for.

"Cassie, you look all done-in." P. picked up on our ennui, and was trying to be solicitous. It was sweet of him, yet it sent me into an internal fury.

"Don't fucking patronize me!" I hissed. He winced in surprise and hurt, while S. pretended not to notice.

It was like the time he tried to teach me to play tennis and let me win a few volleys. I smacked the expensive racket his step-mother loaned me on ground, shattering its handle, then stormed off the court, tears streaming down my cheeks. I locked myself in a bathroom stall in the women's locker room for two hours until I was sure he'd gone. It was only then I realized I had changed at home and was still wearing the ridiculously-short tennis dress his mom had loaned me. I'd have to ride the Frankford El to City Hall, then change to the Broad Street bus, where the evening shift at the Navy Base would be appraising my ass that began before the dress ended. Generally not a bad ass, I'm glad to say, but it's mine and not one I'd want a group of strange men eyeing.

Thing is, P. hadn't left by the time I came out of the women's locker room. I was thrilled to see him and immediately as angry as before. We quarreled again; he insisted on taking me home, then wouldn't let me get out of the car until I kissed him, holding my wrists so tight he left black and blue marks, pushing me down onto the passenger seat with his whole body until the tears flowed as liberally as they do when I'm beside myself with blind rage.

And yes, he kissed them all away. I told him how much I loved him, that I'd kill him if he ever left me and suddenly that short tennis dress with my ass hanging out turned out to be a good thing after all— he started by fingering my pussy, pushing aside the frilled shorts and pushing two fingers into the wetness. I was coming, squirming, moaning and biting his lips as he kissed me and kissed me. Unzipping his fly, he pulled out his cock, catching its head slightly on the shorts before plunging right in. I wanted to push him off, but he was too strong, so I gave in and let him slide back and forth until he was about to come.

"Pull out, I don't have any protection," and he did just in time to spurt onto my thighs. He stayed on top of me and we kissed some more. And then he did something I can't quite explain: he sat up, pulled my legs across his, and spanked my bottom— hard— several times, with his fingers brushing across my pussy as he raised what I later saw in the mirror were red hand-shaped patches. With each whack of his hand, my cunt spasmed and then spasmed again and I was climaxing as intensely as if his cock or fingers were inside me. He held my wrists with his left hand, and although I fought like a tiger to get away, I kept coming and coming with each spank until I collapsed, breathless and spent.Fortunately it was getting dark by then, and if any of the neighbors saw our little pornographic show, none of them squealed to my folks.